I didn't mean it like that
by FreefallingThroughFandom
Summary: Mycroft's struggle with his weight affects more than just his wardrobe. Can their relationship last? Can Greg fix his mistakes? Can Mycroft learn to accept that other people make mistakes too? Follow the boys as they battle through the twists and turns of being a teenager, and the difficulty of trying to keep a relationship survive through thick and thin.
1. Heading home

Mycroft had been doing so well. Each day was a struggle, a mini-battle commencing at breakfast and ending when he crawled into bed each night, but he still was doing well. Every calorie was accounted for, he went for a jog before breakfast, and he didn't have any biscuits with his tea. It had been working, not only had he managed to reach his goal weight, but he was actually managing to maintain it too, even going so far as to swap out his wardrobe for clothes of a much more satisfactory size before he'd left, planning to continue his method once he was back at Eton.

For a while he managed, his uniform – a few sizes smaller than the ones Mycroft had been wearing the previous terms – stayed the right size for about…well, just less than a month he'd say. Mycroft knew straight away what was happening, he could see himself slipping into old habits, forfeiting the morning run for an extra cup of tea, buying a packet of biscuits when he went out, getting the food that looked good not the healthy ones he should. He noticed everything. But he didn't stop it, he just made excuses and carried on. Most of the excuses were true. He was homesick, so he'd have a full English for breakfast because it reminded him of holidays at home. He missed his parents and Sherlock, so he'd buy some biscuits because on bad days his mum would give them all one. He was stressed, so he baked, because that was what he always did…and he missed Greg. So he did the thing that came automatically to him. He ate.

That wasn't to say that he didn't enjoy being back at school. It was so much more peaceful than home, and he could work properly without being judged because of his intelligence. He was _respected_ for it, not taunted. It was only natural to be a little homesick, or to miss your family and friends, and despite how much Mycroft tried not to be he was still only human. He still talked to them, ringing his family, and Greg, he wasn't completely isolated from them. There was a certain element of freedom too that was far more enjoyable than he'd expected. There were no looks if he had a biscuit with his tea, and no one expected him to eat salads every lunch. No one cared if he just stayed in his room reading instead of going for that jog. No one cared. And so Mycroft didn't bother, convincing himself that if no one cared then it couldn't be that bad and he shouldn't care either. That had been a mistake.

By the time the Christmas break rolled around all Mycroft's work had been destroyed. No longer did the uniform fit, nor did the new uniform he'd bought, and the new, new uniform that came after was still more of a squeeze than it should have been, constricting him uncomfortably. The last week had been…well, it had been stressful to say the least. No one at Eton cared, but at home they would, and considering the difference from when he'd left…they were going to notice immediately too. He'd spent the last twelve hours meticulously packing up his room – they had a month long break at Christmas and New Years – carefully organising his books into boxes and emptying all of his things from the surprisingly modern dorm room. Mycroft knew that there was no way he could get the uniform to fit any better before his father arrived in what he estimated to be thirty-eight minutes and twelve seconds if he'd calculated the traffic right, but that didn't stop him from tugging at it.

Anyone that had met Mycroft knew that he wasn't a nervous person. Jittering and panicking were for other people, he was always so calm and collected, concealing each of his emotions perfectly behind the mask that was just so very him. So very in control. Except right at that moment he'd let the mask slip. It was only his Father, he shouldn't be so stressed about it, but the last time he'd been seen by anyone of importance to him he'd been the thinnest he could remember, now his weight was back up to what he assumed was close enough to his highest. He didn't want to let them down and he didn't want to see the look on his face when his father first saw him.

Mycroft made himself stop and draw a long breath, deciding it was too risky to smoke with his father so close. He could do this. He was Mycroft Holmes, he wasn't going to panic or get wound up about something as trivial as his appearance. He was better than that. He stood for another moment after his pep talk before finishing packing his room, placing his pillows on top of the pile of boxes just as there was a knock on the door, one he immediately recognised to be his father's. With one last futile attempt to make his uniform fit better he headed over to the door and opened it for him, barely even stopping to smile at his father before he started 'checking' the room for anything he'd forgotten to pack. He already had everything, he'd ticked them off his list as he packed, but by pretending to be busy he was giving his father a chance to adjust to how big he'd gotten when Mycroft didn't have to see, and judging by his long pause at the door he _was_ adjusting.

Each second dragged for Mycroft as he waited for him to say something. Anything. Mycroft didn't have anything to say first. "Well? Do I not get a hug? We both know you've packed everything" his father asked, obviously realising that Mycroft wasn't going to crack first. Even without turning round Mycroft could hear the smile in his voice, shock giving way into being happy to see his son for the first time in months. Mycroft stopped the false search turning around and walking over to his father, scanning over him properly as he did. He looked the same as always, the pronounced bone structure, the greying hair, the same twinkle in his eyes and the grin that permeated most memories Mycroft had of childhood. He was never much of a person for physical contact, but he hadn't seen him for months and he had missed him even if he wouldn't admit it. Wrapping his arms around him Mycroft realised with a small amount of amusement that he was almost as tall as him, just an inch or two shorter. "It's good to see you." His father murmured.

"It's good to see you too." He responded, allowing the hug to go on for a few seconds longer before he finally pulled back. Instinctively tugging at his uniform as he stepped away, waiting for the inevitable comment. Only it didn't come, all his father did was look around the room, nodding at how clean it was and the fact that Mycroft didn't have a roommate. Both were preferences of Mycroft's. There wasn't really that much stuff to carry, and so his father took two of the boxes and the pillow.

"Right let's get this stuff in the car and we'll get you home." He said, propping the door open with his foot as Mycroft shouldered his bag and the last couple of boxes. "We've tried to keep Sherlock out of your room for you, but just in case I'd make sure you check for flammable chemicals and things hiding around your room." He warned.

Mycroft couldn't help but smile at that as he followed out of the room, pausing momentarily to lock the door of the now empty room behind him. "I'll be certain to keep that in mind. I'm assuming that his behaviour hasn't changed since the last time I called?" he said, his already perfectly enunciated voice sounding even 'posher' than usual. He liked it though, it made his words clearer, gave them more authority. His father led the way to the car, helping to organize the boxes into the boot, all the while answering Mycroft's enquiries about home. Of course he could always just read it from him, but he hadn't had spoken to his father in person for too long to do that, and besides, life was excruciatingly boring if you never said anything.

Once they were both sat in the car though, and both their questions had been answered they settled into the comfortable silence that they so often shared. Both his mother and Sherlock were much too excitable and dramatic to sit in the quiet, but for Mycroft and his father it was easy. They could both agree that they'd had a good catch-up if they'd just sat in silence in the library at home. A fact that would forever confuse the others. Thankfully the topic never once steered too close to his weight for comfort, it didn't even seem like he was trying to avoid it, although Mycroft could easily see that he was. They only stopped once on the trip home to put more petrol in the car, Mycroft stayed in his seat as his father went out to pay, returning with a cup of – in Mycroft's opinion sub-par but necessary – tea and a sandwich each, flicking on the radio as they ate.

The radio provided great comfort to Mycroft, who was all of a sudden feeling very nervous and embarrassed about eating in front of his father. The radio was a great distraction, and Mycroft ate quickly, taking longer for his barely palatable tea. They set off again fairly quickly, but the radio stayed on. Every now and then his father would start singing along to some song or other with his low gravely voice, keeping Mycroft's attention off the fact that his mother had yet to see him and that Sherlock was going to have some rather harsh barbs to shoot at him.

Arriving at home was bittersweet. It was so familiar, so comforting to be at home again, yet at the same time it meant going through their reactions. Home was a little more than most other people's. It was more of a manor house, it was clearly big, the front porch overlooking the yard which was filled with shrubbery and once bright plants that had died for the winter. Mycroft climbed out of the car, scanning over the house to check for any alterations before starting towards the boot. "No no, you go on in, I'll get your things." his father waved him off assumingly. Mycroft smiled and mumbled a 'thanks' before turning and heading into the house, the door already unlocked waiting for him.

"Hel-" he managed to call before he was enveloped into a hug by a short, but strong woman that smelled of lavender and lemons. Her arms were around him before he'd really noticed she was there. "Hello Mummy." He greeted softly unable to stop the smile from forming on his lips. He'd missed her too.

"Oh Mycie, we've missed you so much…I'm so glad you're home" she gushed planting a kiss on his cheek before stepping back and holding him at arms reach to get a better look at him. She didn't say anything about it immediately, but he saw the shock in her eyes, and the following pity for him. "Oh you've really grown haven't you? " she said. It could have been worse, not much worse, but she could have said something explicitly about his weight, this time she'd managed to restrain herself and say something that alluded to his height too. A snort from the staircase showed that he wasn't the only one to pick up on the double entendre. Mycroft's eyes flicked over immediately, scanning over Sherlock with practiced efficiency and detail. "I didn't mean it like that…I'll go help your father." His Mother told him obviously not wanting him to feel bad and patting him gently on the shoulder before heading out. It was a little too late for that though.

Sherlock had shot up too; he was still shorter than Mycroft but not by too much. His frame was just as worryingly thin as always, his mop of dark curls sitting atop an unusual but certainly sticking bone structure. "It's good to see you Sherlock." He greeted with a smile, deciding to leave the fact that Sherlock was still smoking out of the conversation for the time being. Sherlock's ice blue eyes that he shared with his mother were sweeping over Mycroft too, a smirk curling on his lips as it did.

"Brother." Sherlock said simply in greeting, but there was a mischievous edge to his voice that Mycroft didn't like but was all too familiar. "You're certainly looking…well. " He continued watching for a response to see if this was as big a gold mine as he expected it to be. Mycroft's smile tightened, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. It was a dead give away that his words were having an effect on him, but he hadn't been able to stop it in time. This was going to be a problem. Sherlock immediately knew what to say to hurt Mycroft, and while Mycroft knew what would be just as effective to Sherlock he wouldn't actually say it. It was a game he could never win without upsetting Sherlock too much.

"I feel well, thank-you." He told him smoothly. It sounded flawless, but Sherlock would be able to read it for the lie it was. How could he feel well when he's failed so miserably? In all honesty he felt sick, because he knew now everyone was expecting him to start over, and he knew that they'd all be shocked and perhaps a little disgusted like Sherlock seemed to be. He didn't care what most people thought, his family one of the exceptions. The other was one Gregory Lestrade. Popular boy, school jock, probably the most attractive boy on this side of London, incredibly caring and somehow he liked Mycroft. It was difficult to believe that someone as wonderful as Greg could like him in the first place, let alone like this.

It was one of the main reasons he'd stuck to his diet so well in the first place. It felt like the least he could do was make himself at least a little more attractive for Greg, and he'd been so supportive. He didn't know how he was going to let Greg see him, or how Greg was going to react. He just didn't know if he could take what he imagined what Greg would do. Before Sherlock had time to respond their parents entered the house again, holding all the boxes. Sherlock sighed and slunk off to his room most likely. Mycroft smiled at his parents, taking a few of the boxes from his mother with a quiet thanks as he started heading up the stairs to his room. "If it's acceptable with you I'm going to unpack and get settled in." he said, though really it was more of a statement than asking for their opinion.

"That's fine sweetheart, I'll call you down for dinner and you can tell us everything then." His mother smiled, while his dad just nodded and hummed in agreement, following Mycroft up the stairs with the rest of the boxes. Mycroft wasn't exactly looking forwards to talking about school, because no doubt his weight would be made a topic, but he decided to cross that bridge when he got to it. He put the boxes on the floor and his father followed suit. The room was exactly as he remembered it, and it didn't look like Sherlock had gotten around to setting up traps for him yet. The walls were the same white as always, the king-size bed with his freshly washed grey bedspread and his desk and bookshelves patiently waiting for all his things to be redistributed and organised. The only thing he didn't recognise was an envelope sitting on the desk. Even from that distance he recognised the handwriting. Greg had left him a letter; clearly it'd been written and delivered earlier that day. He didn't look at the wardrobe or the draws, well aware that every article of clothes would be too small for him. All he had were the ones he'd bought at school.

His father turned to leave him be, gently patting him on the shoulder as he walked past, "We're glad that you're home." He said heading to the door and pausing for a moment, half turning to Mycroft as he added "…try not to feel uncomfortable. We're your family, you'll always be perfect to us." He smiled and left, closing the door behind him. Mycroft didn't know how he knew to say something like that considering Mycroft kept his emotions under check, but even then it did little to soothe him. He just closed his eyes, running a hand though his slightly curly auburn hair and took a deep breath. He didn't have to look in a mirror so long as he kept away from the en suit and didn't open the wardrobe. That was good at least.

After a few minutes of trying to collect his thoughts he opened his eyes and headed over to the letter from Greg, opening it and scanning over it immediately.

' _Hey Myc,_

 _By the time you read this letter it's already too late…_

 _I'm only kidding, don't panic; bet I got you there._

 _So you're back from Eton then if your reading this and laughing at my trick – I'm just going to assume you are because that was funny – So I was thinking, you're finally back home for a while, and that needs to be celebrated so I'm throwing a party in your honour tomorrow at my house (Mum's taken the kids to see Gran so I've got the house to myself). I've invited a few people, John, Sherlock, Dimmock, Sally, Anderson and Irene. Anthea invited herself, she misses you almost as much as I do. So we're doing that and you better be there because I need to see you ASAP, I thought you'd want to get settled first though._

 _So I'll see you tomorrow, there's no dress code and you don't need anything except you and your absolutely bloody brilliant self that I've missed so much._

 _Alright, see you then, ( by the way you're a bloody bastard for making me ring the door bell and ask your mum to put the letter in place, couldn't leave the window unlocked could you?)_

 _Your doting and incredible boyfriend,_

 _-Greg. '_

Mycroft sat down heavily at his desk and propped his head up in his hands. He couldn't let Greg see him like this, but he couldn't just not turn up. He missed Greg more than he cared to admit, more so after reading the letter and imagining him handing it to his mother, even thinking of ways to avoid seeing him felt wrong. Would Greg still think he was so brilliant if he saw how much weight he'd put on? He needed to think of something that wouldn't upset Greg, and he only had until tomorrow to do it. There had to be something. He didn't move for several minutes, trying to think of something to do before standing up abruptly. He was fat not useless, at the very least he could unpack while he was thinking. There'd be something to get him out of this without upsetting or disappointing Greg. He just needed to figure out what.


	2. Walking the dog

Dinner at the Holmes house couldn't have been any more painful for Mycroft. Of course, his mother had made one of his favourite meals to welcome him home, but as it turns out trying to slow your eating down when you were used of practically wolfing down everything that was placed in front was more difficult than Mycroft had remembered. Luckily for him though he had Sherlock to make the odd comment reminding him that one portion of food was enough…or maybe he'd just stop there, stop the smirk from forming on Sherlock's lips every time Mycroft raised his fork. Of course Sherlock hardly ate but that was no different to usual. He couldn't help but notice that his parents were trying to subtly keep an eye on how much he was eating as well. He placed his knife and fork down before he was full thanking them for the food and continuing to answer their questions about the term at school.

It was always to easy to forget that family could be a pain in the arse too, It was always just easier to remember how you missed them not the way your pesky little brother was constantly trying to bring the conversation to his weight with well timed questions that could have been mistaken genuine interest if you weren't accustomed to his ways. _"What about clothes shops, do they sell your size clothes?" "How was the food this term?"_ or even _"And the P.E lessons? Are they not mandatory?"_ All would have been perfectly ordinary and acceptable question if not for the look on Sherlock's face and the smug smirk as he asked, of course Mycroft knew what he was doing, but not answering would only prove how much it was getting to him. Instead he answered curtly refusing to give Sherlock the pleasure of winding him up.

Although Mycroft was certain that there was some form of desert in the fridge – no he wasn't specifically looking for it, it just wasn't hidden well- neither of his parents mentioned it though, and Mycroft understood the unspoken message. Wouldn't it just be easier for everyone to have Mycroft back on his diet? his mother would probably take the cake to some tea with her friends, and Mycroft wouldn't have to have any, because really his diet needed to be restarted with immediate action. Meanwhile Sherlock's barbs were getting less and less subtle, evidently the boy didn't have a shred of tact or patience in him, unable to wait even six hours before snapping insults at every chance he got. His parents attempts to thwart his barrage of insults had little effect, and Mycroft was just too tired to reciprocate By the end of the meal Mycroft was beyond embarrassed, hugely irritated and any scrap of self confidence he'd had before sitting down had completely evaporated.

As 'punishment' for Sherlock's insults he was forced to do the dishes. The muttering that it elicited from the boy was almost comical but Mycroft didn't stick around to hear it. If he stayed in the house for any longer his parents were going to take him aside, sit him down and have a long discussion about what exactly had happened to his diet – and though they loved him just as much – when was he going to start the diet again. If they were feeling particularly affectionate, and from the sympathetic looks he was receiving at dinner they were, they'd even talk about his feelings, how he felt about it all, and if there was anything he needed to talk about. Mycroft couldn't stand such a farce. Instead as soon as his mother looked over to him evidently about to suggest they have a chat in the living room, Mycroft stood up and forced a smile. "Dinner was lovely, thank-you…I'm going to take the dog for a walk, clear my thoughts a little."

It was the perfect excuse that implied he was going to be getting at least a little exercise that night, so of course how could they refuse? He donned his coat putting his phone and a carefully concealed packed of cigarettes and lighter in his pocket before picking up the dog's leash and whistling for the beast. He had to admit that as far as canines went Redbeard was an excellent specimen, not only was he a beautiful dog, but he was very well behaved and good at keeping Sherlock company. That wasn't to say that Mycroft was attached to it, but he'd tolerate it in the house – not his room. A few seconds after whistling Redbeard padded softly into the porch, taking a seat as Mycroft attached the leader, tail thwacking happily against the floor.

Mycroft had no intention whatsoever to walk far, so after leaving the house he headed to the cycling track nearby – but still out of view of the house- and sat down on a crumbling wooden bench. He just needed to get out, escape the pitying looks and the barbs before he snapped. Redbeard sat at Mycroft's feet, tilting his head as if enquiring what was going on. Mycroft considered for a moment as he took out the cigarettes and lit up, before deciding it was safe enough to let him off the leash. The animal looked unsure for a moment before trotting off, probably to find an interesting plant to piss on. Mycroft took long draws on his cigarette, both to calm down from dinner and to prepare for what he was doing next.

He had to call Gregory.

He didn't want to. Not at all. Even if he missed his voice and his jokes, he would have to disappoint him and say he couldn't go to the party. Greg didn't know about the weight gain, it'd just never been mentioned over the phone. Part of Mycroft had decided that it wasn't bad enough to comment on, and that part that knew it was had convinced itself that he'd get it under control by the time he came home. Only he hadn't, and now he had to face it. After one last deep draw on his cigarette, Mycroft dropped it to the floor and crushed it out. His fingers automatically punched out Greg's number, calling him from his dorm room night after night had made sure that it was more than just stored in his memory, but his muscle memory too.

Part of him wished that he was still in his dorm, calling for the simple desire to talk to Greg as he lay on his bed and planed out his essays. He brought the phone to his ear waiting only a few moments before the dial tone stopped at a voice rang through. "Myc! So you're home then? Did you get my letter?" Greg asked immediately. Mycroft couldn't help but smile, dismissing the use of the nickname that Greg – and only Greg – was permitted to use.

"Evening Gregory. I'm home and I received the letter, apologies for not keeping the window open while I was away, I was just thinking of the small matters of thieves and the elements." He said, warm sarcasm seeping through his words. There was a snuffle followed by a sneeze nearby, so clearly the dog hadn't wandered too far.

"As if, I didn't even know you had criminals even near your part, I'm pretty sure that they look at all those bloody manor houses and decide they'd have an easier time nicking some poor bugger's car radio." Even over the phone Mycroft could hear the smile in Greg's voice, they way he'd have rolled his eyes and half swivelled around in his desk chair. "So you know about the party then?…I know it's not very private and all, but Anthea was complaining that she was your friend first and that she had a right to see you at the same time and then Irene overheard and decided it had to be a party, so of course I invited the others too and… yeah." He sighed, but it was only a little exasperated, Greg hadn't stopped smiling. "I was thinking that after the others went home you and I can just stay at mine, watch some films, talk…I know you know it already but I missed you."

Mycroft closed his eyes, running a hand through his hair. "I missed you too. He murmured. "About the party…are you sure there's nothing I need to bring?" he asked, with a wince. That was the opposite of what he'd rang to say. But even if he had said he couldn't go to the party Greg would find a way of coming to see him, then it'd need explaining why he didn't want to go, and…well, hearing Greg so excited about seeing him and having this party…he just couldn't say no. Somehow even just hearing the other's voice was enough to make him loose his resolve on the matter. He blamed it on not seeing him for so long.

"Good. Nah, we should be good, unless you're against vodka and beer, then you should probably bring something, If you come over around six or seven that'd be great. I think Irene said something about wine, and Anthea's bringing rum. I've got the food sorted…one night off your diet isn't going to do anything." The grin was still ringing loud and clear through his tone, but Mycroft wasn't smiling. It felt like there was ice running through his veins. Greg needed to know, wouldn't it be better just to tell him than to turn up and see his reaction? Only that meant he'd have to think of something to say, hopefully one that didn't make him sound pathetic or weak.

"That sounds fine." Mycroft didn't usually drink much anyway; he assumed that if necessary he'd find something palatable. "As for the diet…"

"Myc it's one night, I'll even go for a jog with you if you're that worried about it." Greg interrupted, obviously getting the wrong idea of what Mycroft was going to say. Mycroft winced, Greg thought he was doing well, and why wouldn't he? He'd been doing so bloody well, that's what was making this so difficult. He lit up another cigarette, taking a long draw of it before trying again.

"No Gregory I didn't mean it like that…" there was an expectant silence on the other side of the phone, punctuated only by the background muttering and video-game noises that no doubt was coming from one of his little brothers. Mycroft sighed, just bloody say it, you can't hide this from him. "…The diet's been..." This was so much harder to admit than he thought. He hadn't actually had to admit it to anyone. He wasn't going to be able to say anything like this, so he did what he always did. Cut everything off. No emotions, not thoughts, no noise. The best way of describing it was as an empty white room in his head, there was nothing there but logic, relevant information and the task at hand, no emotions to cloud his judgement or make this difficult. "…It hasn't been going well recently. I believed it was best that you know in advance, and I'd prefer that you don't draw any more attention to it or make it more obvious than it already is."

The tone of his voice changed to, it was sharp, concise and emotionless, perfectly to the point and completely void of any nervousness. It was exactly the tone he needed to convey such a point to Greg. He heard shuffling at the other end of the line, Greg standing from his chair and flopping back onto his bed. "Myc…it's okay you know, everyone goes through a rough patch, I won't say anything alright? Do you want to talk about it or…?" there it was again, that pity, could they not see that he didn't want it? That it only made things worse?

"Thank-you, and no, I'd rather not talk about it at this moment in time." He answered simply. He was sat perfectly still, the only movement was to raise the cigarette to his lips. Greg on the other hand was still shuffling around. "Apologies Gregory but I have to go, I'll see you tomorrow." He didn't wait to hear Greg's goodbye before he hung up. He still didn't move for a few long minutes. Outside of that white room in his head everything was so loud, it took a while to readjust. He stood with a quiet sigh, tugging his shirt back into place. Like his latest set of uniform none of the clothes he'd bought at Eton fit properly anymore, and he knew for a fact that searching his draws and wardrobe for something better fitting was completely pointless. At least he had until the next evening to by some new ones, although he was dreading finding out which sizes fit.

He took one lat draw of the cigarette before snuffing it out. It had gotten dark enough that the dog was no longer visible, and there was no way that Mycroft was going to start shouting it's name. Instead he put his finger and thumb in his mouth and whistled, the shrill noise piercing through the quiet. It was twelve seconds before the dog was in earshot again; the sound of paws racing towards him and the soft panting ensuring that Mycroft knew he was there. He re-attached the leader, much to the dog's apparent disgust, and started walking back towards the house. Some people may have taken the opportunity to have a heart to heart with such an animal, but not Mycroft. He walked in silence, keeping his thoughts to himself and letting the dog trot along beside him undisturbed.

What would talking to the dog do anyway? Although his problems felt heavy on his shoulders, talking to the dog wouldn't actually make him lose weight, nor would it make his clothes any better fitting. It would simply provide emotional comfort, and Mycroft was trying to distance himself from his emotions considering that was where the main problem lay. Caring was not an advantage, he learned that from a very young age, but despite that it was impossible not to. He cared about his parents, and Sherlock, and Greg and the very few friends he had. He cared about what they thought of him, and even though it was 'just a number' and 'didn't define him' he cared about his weight too.

It was all of this caring that made him turn to food. He knew it was. He was lonely, or stressed or tired or angry, and it gave him something else to focus on. There were alternatives, he could play the piano, but that would mean leaving the room, he could read, but he'd proven on multiple occasions that he could read and snack at the same time. Mycroft had to find a better way of distracting himself, or he had to stop caring. It was the only way to truly stop this infuriating dance with the scales. He stopped for a moment outside the house, he knew he'd smell of smoke, but he could just say he'd walked past a bonfire. His parents would believe him, Mycroft wasn't stupid enough to smoke. If only they knew.

He tried to unlock the door quietly, slipping inside and transferring his phone and cigarettes from his coat pockets into his trouser pockets. He toed off his shoes and hung the coat, freeing the dog from the leash…who immediately raced out of the porch and into the living room barking his return to whoever was in there. Mycroft winced and stared heading towards the stairs hoping that they wouldn't want him. He'd only taken a few steps before a voice stopped him. "Mycie? Can we have a word?" his mother called, they hadn't heard him climb the stairs, so they knew he was in earshot. He considered trying to climb the stairs quietly, but they echoed and it was hard enough even for Sherlock to climb them silently, added weight didn't do much for being subtle or inconspicuous.

With a quiet sigh Mycroft headed over to the living room, leaning against the doorway instead of stepping inside. Both his parents were there, sitting together on the sofa. He didn't say anything, just scanned the room. The cream carpet had been cleaned recently, the walls were the same warm red as always. The Christmas tree hadn't been put up yet, nor had any other decorations, although he assumed they were going to be put up soon considering that the coffee table had been shifted out of the way and was now closer to the sofa. "Mycroft." He corrected tiredly, it had the same number of syllables for God's sake.

"Mycroft darling, sit down, your father and I want to talk to you." She said softly, carefully, as if speaking too loud would scare him off. Mycroft didn't move from the doorway, just crossed his arms over himself, squashing the urge to tug at his clothes again, knowing it wouldn't do anything but draw attention to it. He didn't like the way the were watching him, it was like they were waiting for him to crack, to spill his secrets to them and explain exactly what it was that had stopped him from sticking to his diet.

Well he wasn't going to do it. Not then.

With a quick scan over them Mycroft confirmed what they wanted to talk about, the fact that they'd been discussing the best approach while he was out, and the fact that he was going to hate every moment of the conversation. Again he slipped back into the white room in his head to tackle this, wondering if there was any point at all in exiting it. "I understand this is a discussion you believe needs to take place, and I _will_ make sure that I take part in it, if only for your reassurance that I am - in fact - aware of my weight and what needs to be done about it. However as I'm sure you understand I'm exhausted, it's been a long day and I rather need some time to myself." He said, allowing some tiredness into his voice and running a hand through his hair.

Perhaps it was unusual for a seventeen year old to speak to his parents as if he was in a business meeting, but it was a habit from talking to his professors, and really quite a common occurrence for him anyway. His parents exchanged looks. After been married for such a long time they could hold entire conversations with just a glance. It was one of the things that Mycroft was proud of his parents for. Despite having two – admittedly very difficult – children to raise and all the trials of modern life they managed to stay very much together and very much in love. It'd make anyone that knew them well enough wonder where Mycroft got the idea that caring was such a bad idea.

It took a little while but finally his father looked over at Mycroft and nodded, "Alright, but we're going to talk about it, your mothers booked you an appointment at the tailors for Monday morning so make sure you remember to go. Go get some sleep." He told him. Mycroft turned to leave the room glad that he'd avoided it this time. He was in no mood to even think about his feelings much less share them with his parents. And the tailor…well, even thinking about going made him feel sick. The Holmes men went to the same tailor since Mycroft had his first suit. He'd witnessed first had the ups and downs of Mycroft's weight, having fitted more suits on him than on any other in the family. He'd know exactly how much bigger Mycroft was, to the millimeter.

It didn't help that he had no regard for what Mycroft would consider embarrassing. His comments were appreciated when he was thinner than usual; he had a feeling they were going to be awful tomorrow. He made sure his mask was tightly in place and simply nodded, refusing to show his dread. The only good thing about it was that Sherlock was busy doing something in his room so he couldn't deduce Mycroft. No doubt if he could he'd make sure that everyone was aware just how little Mycroft wanted to measured, and then he'd probably highlight how desperately he needed new cloths, ensuring that his mother would drag him out to go shopping. With Sherlock upstairs though that could be avoided. He had three days to shift some of the weight for the tailors. Not nearly enough.

"Oh and Mycroft…we're glad that you're home." His mother added. Mycroft half turned and forced a smile – although he knew for a fact that it didn't look forced. His parents were lovely people, and he knew that perfectly well. They did what was best for their children, and if loosing weight and talking about it was what they thought was best then they were going to do everything to help. Neither Mycroft nor Sherlock would be the people they were without their parents support, they never batted an eye at the things they did, only scolding them if they did something potentially dangerous, rude, or disruptive. Unsurprisingly Sherlock had many discussions about safety and behaviour.

"I'm glad to be home too. Goodnight Mummy, Father." He said before leaving the room swiftly and heading up the stairs. His shortness of breath after ascending the stairs was a painful reminder of his added mass, one that he promptly pushed to the back of his mind. Mycroft entered his room, making sure Sherlock hadn't been there before locking the door, drawing the blinds and changing into his pyjamas. Having anyone walk in or see him get changed would be beyond mortifying, and Sherlock would never let him live it down. He noted with mild irritation that even his pyjamas were too snug on him, and added that to the list of things that he needed to buy. Perhaps he'd just buy one or two outfits tomorrow and then get the suit on Monday. He'd buy the rest later.

For now he'd put up with the tight pyjamas, throwing on a once oversized dressing gown to cover himself as he sat at his desk. He'd get some work done and then go to bed. Mycroft just needed to be alone, in the comfort of his meticulously organised room with his laptop. He didn't remember how it had occurred, but once he'd finished an essay he found himself watching a documentary and nibbling on some biscuits from the stash in his draw. Perhaps not a good thing to be doing with his current situation, but then he was stressed and tired and perhaps a little distressed by it, not that he'd admit that. It wasn't like a few biscuits could make things worse anyway. Tomorrow was going to be hell. But there was no avoiding it. The only good part was that he'd get to see Greg, perhaps of he focused on that it wouldn't be quite so bad.


	3. To the shops

The next morning rolled around quickly. Far too quickly in Mycroft's mind. Usual mornings at home would have found him in the living room, with the newspapers, a cup of tea and some form of pastry for breakfast, where he'd generally remain for a further two cups of tea and another pastry. This was because despite being up early, he was not a morning person. The sheer quantity of tea that was required to wake him up was staggering, most days you wouldn't get more than a glare from him until he'd had at least two cups. That morning however, Mycroft didn't linger at home for long. He was up and out of the house before anyone else in the house woke up. Even Sherlock.

There were many reasons for this, he needed to be up early because he had a lot to be getting on with, his body was still following the circadian rhythm it had fallen into being up early at Eton…and he needed to avoid his parents for as long as possible. The last thing he wanted was to be cornered by them as he tried to wake up and forced to talk about his weight. It would only be a bad start to an already ominous day. It was because of these factors that Mycroft had showered quickly – looking away from the mirror as he passed – and changed into some only slightly too snug clothes. Of course he did sit and read a few articles as he drank his tea, but he forfeited the pastries for an apple. He knew it wouldn't change anything in time to see Greg or the tailor, but his diet needed to be rebooted anyway. He might as well start now.

With breakfast done and dusted he located a pen and some paper, leaving a note in his perfect handwriting that explained his whereabouts to his parents. He may not want to see them, but he didn't want to worry them either. Something he wished Sherlock would share. With the note on the table and his mug in the dishwasher Mycroft picked up his things and set off.

The air outside was cool and crisp, autumn retreating fast as winter marched in. It was refreshingly cold, the air flooding his lungs and waking him up even more, far too perfect and clean to ruin with cigarette smoke, so the pack remained untouched in his pocket. Had it not been for the undeniable coil of worry for the party later on it would have been the perfect day. Mycroft just stood for a moment, appreciating the rare piece of quiet and calm that had fallen over the grounds. At least he did until his fingers started to burn with the chill.

He pulled the car keys from his pocket and headed over to the garage. He'd only passed his text a few months ago – immediately after turning seventeen actually – and hadn't yet bought his own car. The one his parents had let him learn to drive in was just a small, old Toyota with far too many miles than was good for it. But she still ran, and though Mycroft would have preferred something a little more comfortable the insurance wasn't as terribly expensive as it could have been. Walking into the city would have been a healthier option, both for the environment and his waistline, but Mycroft didn't see how it could make too much difference. Besides, it was too cold to walk.

He took a seat in the car, fastening his seatbelt before starting up and easing out of the garage. Driving came easily to him, each of the motions and thought processes coming automatically as he made his way into the city. Clothes were his main priority, he needed something to wear at the party. That in itself posed a problem. Mycroft had never been good at selecting clothes to wear to parties and informal events even when he was thin, adding the criteria of hiding as much of his new weight as possible just made things all the more difficult. Still, it had to be done, otherwise he'd be forced to see Greg again in clothes that were too small on him, and that was something he just couldn't tolerate.

One bonus of being up earlier than most was that the shops were quiet, less people to see him wandering around and trying to think of what the best thing to wear was, not to mention pluck up the courage to find out what size he was now. Every now and then a sales assistant would approach him, only to turn in the other direction when Mycroft gave them a look that clearly showed he didn't need or want their help and should really be left alone. He knew that they were just doing their jobs and trying to be of some assistance, but then he was irritated and stressed, and a little hungry after only having that apple. It was yet another thing that wasn't giving him much hope for the diet. Apples were meant to be appetite suppressants as they contain pectin, but clearly it wasn't doing much good for Mycroft. He just tried to ignore it, searching the shop for something that would be casual but covering and that he wouldn't mind wearing.

Unsurprisingly the first few shops proved fruitless, but he didn't expect any less. It was only at the fifth shop that he constructed an idea of what might be acceptable to wear, and the seventh when he'd finally had enough. He utterly refused to visit any other shops and simply decided to buy what he needed from there. It was once again easier to push emotions out of the way, although this time he just shoved them to the side instead of blocking them off completely. With his newfound determination Mycroft located a rack of plain black slacks that – in his mind – were much more acceptable than jeans, some white shirts and a few jumpers.

Selecting the right size was something he wanted to do first time. He loathed changing rooms. Far too many memories of trying clothes on that should fit and knowing before you'd even stepped in that they wouldn't. The defeat of moving up a size. In that small room, with only a drawn curtain to shelter you and stop intruders, you were forced to confront your reflection. See yourself struggle to pull the clothes on. All of that, only to take them all of again and return them to their racks, proving to anyone that cared to notice that you'd put on enough weight to make going up a clothes size. That was more than a couple of pounds. Getting the right size first time would make things a little easier.

Despite that actually finding out which size he was now was also something he wanted to avoid. So he forced himself not to read the sizes, crating a mental blur over them as he selected ones that looked about the right size and took them to the changing rooms. He tried the clothes on with his back to the mirror, not ready to face his reflection quite yet. Surprisingly enough most of the clothes he'd selected fit, the jumpers were even slightly too big, he preferred focusing on that rather than the fact that the shirts were too small. All in all it wasn't bad. They weren't clothes he'd usually wear, but they were close enough, and although it was impossible to hide the extent of his gain at least they didn't make it too obvious. He managed to avoid the mirror too, which in his current position was a good thing.

Mycroft swapped out the shirts for the next size up, leaving the jumpers a little too big and paid at the till, glad that this mortifying, exhausting trip was finally coming to an end. Of course that just meant he was closer to going home, closer to seeing Greg's reaction. There were two sides to every coin. He didn't bat an eyelid at the price – overly expensive for clothes he wasn't planning on wearing for long – just paid and went on his way. And in this case his way was directly towards the food court.

 _Wonderful._

He tried his best to ignore the smells, but it _was_ nearly lunchtime and all he'd had were a few cups of tea and an apple. It was hardly his fault that he found himself sitting at a table in a small café, waiting for his pot of tea and slice of lemon cake to be served. He knew he had to stop doing this, but it had looked heavenly. It looked even better when it was placed in front of him along with the pot of freshly brewed Assam. He was in for a stressful and admittedly worry inducing night, surely he deserved to enjoy a relaxing twenty minutes.

And enjoy he did. The cake – although he'd had better – was still delicious, perfectly fluffy but still heavy enough to make it satisfying. The lemon curd was tarty, perfectly offset by the sweetness of the icing. It was good enough to distract him from the small stab of guilt each time he had a forkful. In his mind it was well deserved, he hadn't snapped at any of the shopkeepers, and he'd achieved what he'd set out to do. Shopping was a painful and tedious experience, forcing himself to go through it all surely deserved some kind of treat afterwards. It was too late now anyway, he'd already bought it and he wasn't about to let it go to waste.

The café itself was also quite nice, very peaceful with comfortable chairs, and a friendly older woman behind the counter, who had only smiled when he'd ordered, not giving Mycroft a look that questioned if he needed cake. It had that charm of a small café, odd tablecloths, and chalkboards detailing what they had to sell. The quiet was certainly the best thing about it though, allowing Mycroft just to think in peace. It wasn't even about anything in particular, just running over anything that came to mind, sorting the stray bits of data. It was soothing. But he knew it couldn't last forever. Too soon he had finished the last bite of cake and had drained the tea. Standing from the table he straightened his shirt – glad that that he'd bought new, better fitting ones – nodded to the woman behind the counter and headed out of the café.

The majority of the afternoon was spent in the library doing some more work. He could easily do it at home, but he'd be required to sit through the conversation with his parents. So he settled for the library, ignoring the irony of the librarians loudly shushing near silent members of the public. As always the work was far too easy for him, requiring little more than finding the correct information in his mind and typing it up. Simple. He took his time, typing out page after page until the point that if he didn't go home and get ready for the party immediately he was going to be late. Absolutely no time to be held by his parents and forced to discus each mortifying element of his weight.

Mycroft drove home, glad for the light traffic, and pulled the car back into the garage before taking his new clothes and heading into the house. Redbeard was sat at the door waiting, having heard the car pull in. Smart dog. He gave Mycroft a sniff before trotting off to find something interesting to do. Mycroft closed the door quietly, if possible he wanted to avoid his parents anyway, even though there really wasn't enough time to talk about it now.

Unlike yesterday he managed to make it half way up the stairs before he stepped on one of the steps that he could have sworn wasn't a bad step last time he was home. Or maybe you just needed to be a certain weight to set it off. He decided to risk it and keep going, however his mother stepped out of the study and gave him a look clearly irritated at Mycroft's absence all day. "Mycroft, avoid us all you want but we're going to talk to you about it." She said sternly, a voice she reserved for when someone was being troublesome. Mycroft suppressed a sigh and stopped ascending the stairs, turning to look at her.

"I wasn't avoiding you Mummy, I just needed a text book that was in the library to do my work." He lied smoothly. He didn't feel guilty about lying to her. Surely it was better to tell a white lie than to admit he was avoiding them. "And I'm aware we're going to talk about it." He muttered, making it clear to anyone who could read the slight shift in his tone that he wasn't happy about it. Of course, having raised him and seen the subtle signs that Mycroft used to display his feelings his mother picked up on them and her face softened considerably.

"Oh Myc, you know we don't want to upset you or make you uncomfortable, it's just that we _do_ need to talk about it." She said, the stern tone replaced with one of concern. "Your father and I just want to make sure that you okay, and that we're doing all we can to help you." Mycroft nodded, she was being honest too. Had it been about anything else he may have started to feel a little guilty about avoiding them, but then it was different, his weight was the exception and avoiding talking about it was just something he couldn't be guilty for.

"I understand…Gregory is having a party tonight, I believe I'll be staying out." He informed her, realising that maybe he should have told her about that earlier. It was just so different to have to explain your whereabouts to people when no one at Eton cared enough to ask or want to know. Without even realising it simply by caring so much his parents had capped his freedom. Yet another reason that caring wasn't an advantage. "Sherlock, however, will be home before twelve" he assured her.

His mother sighed, but it wasn't angry, more mildly exasperated. "All right then, just be careful alright? And look after your brother" she asked. Mycroft nodded, mumbling something along the lines of 'not to worry' before heading upstairs. He'd give Sherlock a lift to the party, and arrange a taxi back for him. His mother certainly wasn't an idiot, she probably knew that there would be some drinking involved, but she trusted Mycroft not to over do it and keep an eye on Sherlock. He _would_ be making sure that Sherlock wasn't being stupid, and when it came to alcohol Mycroft wasn't a big drinker. He didn't like what it did to his head, it made him stupid, or at the very least put him back to average levels, which in his mind were the same thing.

Once again he found himself in the safety of his room to change into his new clothes. It wasn't like he had many options on what to wear. But it still took a good five minutes to select the right combination. He chose the grey jumper, the white shirt and the black slacks. Not so bad. They were certainly more comfortable, less constricting, he could breathe freely. The jumper was slightly too big, not big enough to be baggy or look like he'd bought the next size up to look slimmer, just big enough that it made him feel like it was a little less obvious how big he'd gotten.

Of course, he hadn't actually seen how the clothes looked on, he just knew how they felt. That wouldn't have usually been a problem, but tonight it was. If he just stepped out of his room without knowing Sherlock might say something, and then he wouldn't actually know for sure if he was being serious, or even worse he could just turn up to Greg's looking even worse than he had to. Either way he had to know, so he had to look in the mirror. It felt like biting a bullet. Mycroft checked that the door was still locked as he made his way past to the wardrobe. Where the only full-length mirror in his room was.

Opening the wardrobe itself wasn't nice either, it was filled with clothes that proved just how bad he'd let this get. Mycroft supposed it was his fault. His fault for being lured into a false sense of security after doing so well, it had been a beyond stupid move to throw out all the clothes he had for situations like this. It had been even more stupid to let it get this bad. But there was nothing that could be done about it now. And so after a moment of steeling himself, he turned and faced the mirror.

Now, Mycroft had never been someone that enjoyed his reflection. He was too pale, his hair too red, his freckles made him look like a child. It had improved a little when he could scratch 'chubby' off that list. This time wasn't good. He stopped himself from turning away and looked at himself properly. His auburn hair wasn't any better than usual, the soft curls didn't help anything. While curly hair suited Sherlock's dark hair and his bone structure, Mycroft didn't think that it was a good look on him. His eyes were the same watery grey as always, managing to be both cuttingly sharp, but withdrawn too, as if lost in thought.

As usual his skin was pale, almost ghostly, but thankfully clear and unblemished, the only break being the splattering of freckles across his nose and on his cheeks. They made him look three years younger than he was. It was no surprise that his cheeks seemed fuller than usual, or that his jaw line was less sharp. His bone structure was different to Sherlock's anyway, his cheekbones had never been that pronounced, but now you couldn't see them at all. The only good thing was that he hadn't developed a double chin, although admittedly his jaw line was softer than it should have been.

As for the clothes themselves they were all right. The slacks were the right length and didn't cut into him, as for the jumper it was actually a fairly good choice on his part. It didn't clash with his hair or make him look washed out, and it did a good job of highlighting his eyes. He was still unmistakably bigger, but because it didn't cling it lessened the effect. After that evaluation of himself and his clothes Mycroft proceeded to brush his teeth and comb his hair into place, flattening it as much as possible. Once that was done he really had nothing else to do but make sure Sherlock was ready and leave. He picked up his phone and car keys, adding his wallet just in case as he unlocked his door.

The Holmes house – or manor really – was unmistakably beautiful. It was old and traditional, right from the ornate staircase to the large library filled to the brim with books. It was truly a lovely house, and he was very privileged to live there. Had there been such a thing as ghosts no doubt the house would be filled with them, but as it was it was simply memories that filled the space. The small dent in the floorboard where Sherlock had dropped one of the ornamental irons, the singe in the curtain where Mycroft had left a magnifying glass positioned at the incorrect angle, the scratch in the wall from when the dog was chasing a fly…each memory was perfectly categorised in his mind. Small things that were barely noticeable unless you knew where to look. Memories were better than ghosts anyway.

Mycroft headed along the hallway to Sherlock's room and knocked twice. There was no response, but his brother was clearly in there. "Sherlock are you ready?" he called. From inside the room he heard the clink of a beaker being set on the desk and the slight fizz of whichever chemicals he'd smuggled in there. After a moment there was a muffled 'yes', which only succeeded in making Mycroft roll his eyes. Lies. "Well, I'd advise that you set your experiment aside and be ready in fifteen minutes or you'll have to make your own way." He called in response before turning and heading back down the stairs, not waiting for a response.

This time however his mother didn't come out of the study, and his father was at work leaving Mycroft to do what he will with the fifteen minutes he'd promised Sherlock. There was truly only one option. It was with no great reluctance that Mycroft switched the kettle on and set about making his cup of tea. For each person on the planted there was a point where they could take no more tea, the saturation point, but for Mycroft that point was still a long way of. He'd only ever drank too much tea once in his life time, and it wasn't an experience he wished to repeat, but he had time and a hot cup of tea would do wonders for his mood.

With his freshly made tea in hand Mycroft took a seat at the table and took his phone from his pocket, searching through the latest news as he enjoyed the quiet. Redbeard glanced in the kitchen, probably wondering who it was in there before quietly huffing at plodding off. That was understandable, while Mycroft didn't despise the creature he would pet it or give it treats, the dog was smart enough to hang around people that would…namely the rest of the family. Even his father would slip the dog some meat from his plate if the sad wet eyes appeared by his leg. Mycroft's timing was as precise as usual, just as he was draining the final dregs from his cup the telltale sound of the third from bottom step creaking gave way Sherlock's otherwise silent descent.

Mycroft didn't move from the table, just listening to his mother exit her study once again, and stop Sherlock for a word. It wasn't eavesdropping so long as he didn't put any more effort into listening in than usual. It was for that reason he only caught snippets of the conversation, it was just the general things. 'Listen to your brother' 'try not to be rude' both statements were returned with a sigh and the mumblings of begrudging agreement. The part that caught his interest though, was what his mother added onto the end of her customary rules speech, just after the 'have fun' as Sherlock was turning to head into the kitchen their mother stopped him. 'Keep an eye on your brother for me, make sure he's alright.' She added.

Was there any need for that? He wasn't a lost puppy or a child with grazed knees. Despite what his waistline said he was capable of looking after himself. It was understandable that mothers worried for their child, a behaviour seen in most species of mammals, after all it was the instincts of parents to protect their young and further ensure the survival of their species. But surely she didn't think that he required someone to look out for him, much less his younger brother.

Not that he said as much, despite his take on the meaning of eavesdropping he assumed that mummy would be less than pleased at the intrusion. Instead he just sat thinking it through, only glancing up momentarily when Sherlock stepped into the kitchen. "Please tell me, brother mine, that you at least opened your window before reacting the aluminium and iodine." He sighed turning his attention back to his phone. In his peripheral vision he saw Sherlock's hand twitch in annoyance, only fair considering his behaviour last night and the retort he was no doubt preparing.

"And tell me, Mycroft, how many sizes up are those new clothes?" he asked, Mycroft didn't even need to look up to see the smirk on the boys face. "No wait, I bet you blocked that out didn't you…too painful to see what an utter fa…" Mycroft stood up abruptly at that giving Sherlock a glare and effectively cutting whichever adjectives he was planning to use. The teen still looked triumphant, clearly pleased in having riled Mycroft up so easily.

Mycroft though, didn't think it was funny in the slightest. Had Sherlock any semblance of tact or compassion in him he would have seen that it was certainly not the topic to be taunting Mycroft with. Truly it was times like these that Mycroft actually took into consideration Sherlock's claims of sociopathy, only better observation and evolution of his brother's behaviours kept him from agreeing. "I didn't mean it like that Sherlock. It was an enquiry not an insult. Get in the car. I'll prevent the aluminium iodide from causing any damage." He said flatly, pashing Sherlock the car keys as he passed and headed up the stairs to make sure it was properly ventilated. It was unlikely he would have produced a large amount of the gas, but it was best to be safe.

It gave him time to cool off a little too. It wasn't like him to loose his temper, even if that was just glaring at Sherlock and snapping at him, in all fairness though, he was nearing the end of his tether. He didn't spend long upstairs before heading out to the car, calling a goodbye to his mother as he left. Sherlock was already in the car, so Mycroft climbed in immediately. He knew the way to Greg's house without having to think about it. Sherlock at least had figured out that it was best to remain silent in case he irritated Mycroft too much, but that meant the car was silent as he drove. Mycroft broke first, sighing softly.

"If you insist on continuing your smoking habit, at the very least get the aluminium powder from under your nails before you light up." he warned him, deciding he'd tackle the actually smoking issue at another time. Sherlock glanced at his nails and nodded, and began getting rid of the aluminium powder, not looking over at Sherlock. The problem between them was that they were too similar, they didn't often have friendly conversation, but both of them did care for the other – insults and arguing aside. In the car it seemed to have settled slightly, Sherlock looked only slightly less guarded than usual. Perhaps it was the privacy and social safety in the car. Mycroft understand how his brain worked, and he was no better at socialisation.

"Mummy said I had to keep an eye on you…make sure you were okay." He informed him, not even waiting two seconds before adding, "You overheard that though." Mycroft just nodded, mentally cataloguing what it was that had lead Sherlock to that conclusion, he saw no need for a verbal response. "Why did she tell me to do that?" he asked. It wasn't taunting or confused, simply asking for clarification. Sherlock was aware that Mycroft was capable of looking after himself and that he was okay, or at the very least he could appear okay. The question was what had mummy seen that he hadn't?

"Mummy's better able to make emotional connections than we are, we both require some sign of emotion and a cause in order to deduce, whereas she can take an event or a situation and make a link as to how the person in question is feeling, even if they don't provide any evidence at all for it." He pointed out. "It's not the most reliable of methods, however she's had years of experience…It's the same way she knows when there's a problem at school even before I or the school itself ring to inform her." he contextualised. Sherlock just hummed and turned to look out the window, clearly working something through his head. Mycroft didn't ask. He wasn't entirely certain if he wanted to know anyway.

It didn't take long for them to reach Greg's house. A small but comfortable house that wasn't quite big enough to contain the force and energy that was his younger siblings. The sky was already fairy dark, the curtains drawn in the house but the light shining behind them made it obvious that Greg was home. Irene's car was in the drive, and no doubt she had given Sally and Anderson a lift in with her, John would have cycled and parked his bike around the back and Dimmock only lived down the street so he'd be there too. Even though they weren't late he and Sherlock were going to be the penultimate arrivals, only Anthea yet to make an appearance. Sherlock wasted no time getting out the car and over to Greg's house, not even knocking before entering.

Mycroft however sat in the car for a bit, steeling himself for their reactions. Petty though it may be it really was quite a difference, and he wasn't sure how he could take Greg's reaction if it wasn't good. He wasn't backing out now though, he missed Greg too much for that. He sighed to himself before climbing out of the car and straightening his jumper, walking with his usual grace towards the open door of Greg's house, not stopping when a figure appeared in the doorway or even when that familiar figure stepped outside and started jogging towards him.


	4. The arrival

There were strong arms around him almost immediately, pulling him close and holding him. Standing like this, warmed against the bitterly cold air by a soft embrace…well, it made Mycroft wonder why he'd been so worried about seeing Greg again. Mycroft's arms moved around Greg too, ducking his head slightly and resting it on the slightly shorter teen's shoulders, head nestled in the crook of his neck. He was warm, smiling; he knew that Greg was too. It was exactly what he needed, no words, no looks or pitying eyes, just a hug. Admittedly a rare thing for Mycroft to need, but he wasn't questioning it this time.

"I missed you." Greg whispered, not moving away from Mycroft just yet, clearly he too didn't want to have to step away. That was perfect for Mycroft. To know that Greg hadn't moved on while he'd been away, to hear the honesty in his voice. Perfect.

"I missed you too." He said just as softly. No other words were exchanged for a long moment, both too happy, too comfortable to say anything else. They just stood there, waiting until they were both too cold to last any longer out there. Mycroft may have been wearing a jumper but it wasn't warm enough to keep out the chill. Greg sight softly stepping back from Mycroft with that unfairly beautiful grin on his face. He made a point of not looking at the rest of Mycroft eyes just searching his face. It was a sweet gesture, but one that Mycroft could see though easily. Mycroft retuned the favour, scanning over Greg carefully, picking up on everything he could from the amount of time the other had spend deciding what to wear and the number of extra training sessions he'd been to for rugby…he didn't want to miss a single point.

Greg was well used to Mycroft's deductions by now, so he didn't ask what he was looking at, didn't even blink at the way his eyes were flicking from point to point. When Mycroft had finished scanning over him Greg moved closer again, arms finding their way around Mycroft's neck, lips mere centimetres away. "I'm glad you're home." He said. Mycroft didn't respond, just moved his lips to Greg's, hands on the other teens waist as he pulled him closer. Greg was all too happy to return the kiss. Lips moving softly against Mycroft's. It was soft, tender, and they were both smiling.

At least until someone wolf whistled from the door.

"Oi, having fun you two? Careful or you'll give the neighbours a heart attack." Greg pulled back, giving Mycroft an apologetic look as he turned around.

"Piss of Dimmock, If you're so eager to watch people kiss then go sit by Sally and Phillip." He called, it was mostly joking, but then he sounded a bit peeved about being interrupted. Mycroft was too, but he didn't voice as much, more than happy to let Greg handle that one. He didn't really have any problems with Dimmock, he was on of the more popular boys in school, didn't get terrible grades, was secondly only to Greg in sports. He was much more abrasive though, making jokes when he shouldn't, commenting on things that could be offensive. He just didn't think about other people much. Not someone Mycroft would choose to spend time with, but he was one of Greg's best friends so he begrudgingly put up with him.

Dimmock just grinned from the doorway and slipped back inside, presumably to have another beer. Mycroft sighed softly, slipping his hand into Greg's and entwining their fingers. "We should go inside, I don't want to make you a bad host." He murmured. Greg nodded, his own sigh echoing Mycroft's.

"And I'd be a bad host if I stayed outside to just kiss you some more?" he asked, signature smirk in place. As always Greg looked perfect, mousy brown hair cut just long enough to run your fingers through, skin that was always tanned – courtesy of playing outdoor sports – the sports also gave him an envious physique. Anyone could see that he was fit, perfectly toned and strong. A fact the Greg liked to flaunt by training shirtless, the merciless flirt that he was. Today he was wearing his ACDC shirt with ripped black jeans, combat boots and a leather jacket. The look was perfect for him and he knew it. Standing next to him was both wonderful and shameful. They were just so different, opposite ends of the spectrum once again.

"Not from my perspective, however you'd most certainly be a cold host." Mycroft said, a small smile tugging at his lips. Greg sighed again, smirk lifting into a grin that made his cheeks dimple adorably.

"Fine, let's go inside then." He conceded, leading Mycroft into the house and closing the door behind him. Mycroft took the opportunity to reacquaint himself with the house. Even with the group of teenagers there it was still unusually quiet for Greg's house. Pictures of family lined the cream walls, school pictures, family pictures and paintings by the little ones. It was wonderfully cosy. You could look anywhere in the house and find something with sentimental value to them. Admittedly it might have helped that the house was small. Greg shared a room with two of his younger brothers, and his sisters all shared a room as well. A point that often sparked debates and arguments between them – although perhaps not as dramatic as the feuds he and Sherlock had.

Mycroft didn't fail to notice that as he was surveying the house Greg was surveying him. He knew that he would, humans were curious, one of their saving graces. He made sure not to look at Greg, giving him due time to look. He also made sure not to change his breathing pattern or to change his posture, that would give it away more than his slightly imperfect posture already was. It felt better to at least attempt to appear smaller even if it was just a slight deviation from him usual perfectly graceful posture. Mycroft's heart was still beating rapidly. Greg wouldn't say anything, but Mycroft might read it, he might be disgusted, even relieved that he was only going to be there for a month. That was what was daunting.

Greg looked away after a moment; hold tightening on Mycroft's hand without even realising that he had. Not disgust then, or at least not yet. "C'mon Myc, I can't keep you all to myself." He said wistfully, a smile on his lips but Mycroft could hear that his mood had gone down, that'd he'd started to register that Mycroft hadn't been lying about his weight when he called. Even Greg pitied him. He couldn't change that though. Mycroft allowed Greg to call him Myc, he was the only one that was allowed to do so, it was a compromise in return of calling him Gregory. Mycroft followed Greg through the hall, noting that they'd re-painted it a few weeks ago. As they neared the kitchen though the topic Sherlock and John were discussing became painfully obvious.

" _Really Sherlock? Stop being dramatic it can't be that bad, I know he probably won't have kept it all off but I can't believe that."_ Even Greg froze beside him at John's muffled words. It technically wasn't eavesdropping, they should have known that Mycroft was in ear shot.

" _Trust me John, it is. He's back to what he was before, bigger even. I doubt he moved a muscle except to lift his fork to his mouth the entire time he was away."_ Sherlock's scoff was just as pleased as aver, obviously glad to have some gossip to share with John. Mycroft gritted his teeth, forcing the blush on his cheeks to retreat. Greg had gone very silent beside him, staring at his feet and absolutely not looking at Mycroft. He didn't expect anything else. Greg had not problem telling Sherlock off for things, but they weren't supposed to be listening to that conversation in the first place.

Mycroft sighed and stepped forwards, deciding to get this over with, stepping into the doorway with his hand still entwined with Greg's. _"Jesus. Poor sod."_ John said, having the misfortune of speaking just as Mycroft caught his eye. It was all the teen could do not to let his jaw drop, clearly he still hadn't believed Sherlock. "Holy shit." He said, a blush forming on the shorter teen's cheeks as soon as he had spoken, he had the courtesy to look ashamed and down at his feet, "Sorry Mycroft I...uh…I didn't mean it like that, I just didn't expect to see you there." He said with a wince.

"Yes, thank-you for that John, I'm flattered…As for you Sherlock, please refrain from sharing your false presumptions, guessing like that is doing nothing for your deductive skills." He said flatly, allowing some sharp sarcasm into the first part of his sentence. Sherlock merely rolled his eyes, but clearly he was slightly perturbed at not hearing their approach, John apologised quietly again, and it was quite clear he meant it honestly too. It was a shame that his manners – when he chose to use them – didn't rub off on Sherlock.

Mycroft watched them for a few seconds longer before nodding once and turning from the door. He took a few steps, before noting that Greg had slipped his hand out of Mycroft's. He turned to see Greg in the kitchen with a very stern look on his face, no doubt reiterating Mycroft's words in a much less polite fashion. When he turned to see Mycroft's raised eyebrow though he stepped from the kitchen and smiled at him. "You wouldn't believe the amount of times I've had to remind Sherlock about manners, tell me again, why didn't he go to Eton with you?" he asked. Mycroft smiled slightly in response, taking Greg's hand again.

"He didn't want to go. According to him it's full of 'posh twats destined to bribe their ways through life.' He thinks he'll learn more about people if he goes to an average secondary school." Mycroft had jumped at the chance to go to Eton, it had a huge influence on future universities and jobs to go to such a school. When he'd first started he hadn't even had being away from Greg for so long to think about. It had been simpler back then, but having Greg in his life was something he simply wouldn't trade. Greg laughed at that, and God had Mycroft missed that laugh. It was so out of the ordinary for him to miss people in general, let alone miss individual parts of people.

"Ah, so he wants to know about us common folk then?" he asked, this time making Mycroft chuckle, the first time since he'd gotten home.

"Yes, God knows why, but he clearly thinks there's something intriguing about you normal people." The smile was on his lips again, John and Sherlock's discussion about him fading already. Greg laughed again, leaning up slightly and pressing a kiss on Mycroft's cheek.

The living room was just as warm and comfortable as always, except where the usual bunch of Greg's siblings sat it was a group of teenagers. Sally, Phillip and Dimmock were sitting on the love seat. Technically it was only for two people but then Sally was sitting on Phillip's lap, trying to suffocate him with her lips providing enough space on the seat for Dimmock, who like everyone else in the room seemed mildly disgusted by the very public, very affectionate display. Irene was in one of the armchairs, one leg delicately crossed over the other, and that self assured smirk on her painted lips. She and Dimmock seemed to be debating over a trivial matter.

Clearly there was some drinking going on, Dimmock already seemed halfway to drunk, but showed no sign of slowing down as he popped open another beer. Sally and Phillip seemed too busy to drink, and Irene had a glass of red wine on the coffee table. Mycroft wouldn't stop Sherlock from drinking if his brother decided to join in, but he wouldn't let him get too drunk. Mycroft observed everything from the doorway, eyes scanning across the room before he stepped in after Greg. It was a good thing that he'd scanned before entering.

As soon as he stepped inside Irene and Dimmock stopped talking – it was now clear that Irene had been threatening to expose the crush he had on a teacher – and turned to look. In the wake of their silence Sally untangled her tongue from Phillip and turned to look too. Uncomfortable was an understatement. All noise ceased as they saw Mycroft, Phillip's jaw physically dropped, giving Mycroft yet another reason to dislike the unfaithful idiot. It was more unexpected for them, they hadn't been called or told by Sherlock. They would have been expecting thin Mycroft to step into that room, not him the way he was now.

The mood in the room was so tense that you could cut it with a knife, the shock from the others and the tension Mycroft was doing all he could to hide from them wasn't the headed over to the empty sofa and took a seat, Greg sitting right besides him. "Oi, someone throw us a beer…what was that about you having a crush on Miss. Andrews eh Dimmock?" Greg asked with a grin, but it was painfully obvious to Mycroft that it was fake. There was no smile in his eyes, no mischievous twinkle. He was just trying to ease the shock and move everyone on.

Despite Greg's efforts no one moved eyes still trained on Mycroft and his new size. "Not Miss. Andrew's Gregory, not actually a _Miss_ at all, but rather a _Mrs._ Someone Dimmock has been forced to spend a large amount of time with recently after school, where he's forced to write large amounts of text, I'd suggest essays." He said, eyes flicking over the teen only once. "He's might be an idiot, but he's not stupid enough to be caught that often…" Mycroft looked away, seemingly disinterested in the others, a few of which had turned to look at a blushing Dimmock now. "He's been purposefully getting himself on detention in order to see the teacher that supervises after school detentions."

It was a different type of silence now, shifting from shock to a lighter mood. They just need to be reminded who he was and what he could do. Greg started laughing at Dimmock, giving Mycroft's hand a small squeeze; clearly he knew exactly what Mycroft had done that for. "Mrs. Monroe? Really Dimmock?" Greg laughed, leaning forwards and picking up some beers for himself and Mycroft who took it appreciatively and murmured a thanks as he popped it open. He didn't like alcohol, but e had a feeling that it'd make this situation somewhat more bearable. He settled back in his seat as the conversation started up again, Dimmock still pink in the face but not really all that displeased with taking centre stage.

After that the conversation flowed much more easily, Mycroft only cutting in to correct people when they were wrong. At one point Sherlock and John slipped back into the room, taking a seat on the floor rather than trying to share the remaining table chair with one another. Just like Mycroft Sherlock stayed quiet, speaking up now and then when he had an option – and considering he had an opinion on everything he actually spoke up a lot.

"Greg, John, you remember the time in football when the ref gave me a red card so we irritated him until he took it back?" he asked, grin on his face. Greg laughed again, and John hummed.

"You deserved that red Dimmock, you used a bloody rugby tackle in a footy match." John scoffed rolling his eyes, but there was a smile there too. It didn't slip Mycroft's notice that each time John smiled Sherlock relaxed a little. He made a note to keep an eye on that but not interfere or ask yet.

"Oh God the ref was pissed at us, I think the poor bastard just couldn't take another moment of your singing." Greg grinned. Mycroft took a sip of his beer, eyes on Greg. He hadn't seen nearly enough of the other teen for the last few months, he'd be damned if he wasn't going to get a look now, especially when he seemed so happy and relaxed. "What was it you were singing again?" he asked, but it was easy for Mycroft to see that he already knew the answer. Dimmock and John's laughing showed that they remembered perfectly well too.

"Sex bomb, Tom Jones." He laughed, and then proceeded to sing a verse in one of the most horrifying impression of Tom Jones that Mycroft had ever heard. He stopped short when Irene spoke up again.

"If I were you Dimmock, I'd stop singing or you're going to find the rest of my wine on that pretty white shirt of yours." She warned him coolly, taking a sip of said wine. Irene was someone to be careful around. Outgoing and admittedly beautiful she was easily accepted into the top cliques at school. She knew everything that was going on, every iota of information that could be useful to her. With a smirk of her ruby lips and a few whispered words she could send people's lives crashing around them. She was good to have on your side, but dangerous to cross.

Dimmock tapered off cocky grin still in place. "Well, I happen to think I sound Great." He said. Sherlock scoffed loudly, raising an eyebrow when everyone turned to look. Aside from John that was, he already had his eyes fixed on Sherlock.

"Either you're tone death or you're even stupider than I first thought." He said, in his usual 'You're all wasting my time and energy' voice. Mycroft couldn't help but smile at that, an action which caught Dimmock's eyes.

"Hey Greg, maybe you should bring _Mycie_ to practice this week, looks like he could do with some exercise." He said, smirk playing on his lips. Mycroft stopped himself from freezing, turning to look at Dimmock instead. The room fell silent again, Sherlock's laughing stopping when John elbowed him in the side. Clearly they were waiting for Mycroft to snap, to show how he felt about it all. Except it wasn't him that snapped a response first.

"Apologise. I swear to God Dimmock apologize to Mycroft right now or I'll kick you out the house." Greg hissed, only the hand Mycroft had quickly placed on his arm preventing him from standing up. Anything that Mycroft may or may not have felt about the comment – he refused to admit that it'd had an impact on him- quickly faded in light of Greg's explosive outburst. He knew that he wanted to defend Mycroft, that of all the people in the room he probably knew what Mycroft was feeling the best. But he hadn't expected such a reaction.

Neither apparently, had the rest of the room.

Dimmock had paled a shade or two. Greg didn't use it often, but he had one hell of a glare too, and the threat was entirely possible too. He recovered quickly though, playing of his surprise with the usual cocky indifference, "Alright…Jesus Greg I was just joking…Sorry Mycroft, I shouldn't have said that." It wasn't honest at all, but he sounded convincing to the rest of the group. Only Sherlock looked over Mycroft again, conveying that he knew the apology was just as false as the number of girls Dimmock has apparently 'scored with'.

As quick as Greg had angered he settled back again, leaning against Mycroft he took a swig of his beer and nodded smiling again. "Good." He huffed. Practically the entirety of Greg and Dimmock's friendship was like that. They'd be joking or messing around and then Dimmock would say something too harsh or take something that step too far, leading Greg – being the kind and caring person that he was – would take it upon himself to stop him and make him apologise. Judging by the other's reaction though, threats and genuine anger were reserved for defending Mycroft. He was admittedly flattered by that. There were very few people that would do such a thing for him, much less mean it honestly and do it because it was instinctual.

Mycroft decided that there was no need for him to add to the conversation, and so he didn't. Sitting back on the sofa and enjoying the warm weight of Greg against his side. Sitting like this – the odd comment aside- it was all to easy to push his weight out of his mind, not to have the new clothes at the front of his mind or worry about how he looked to the others. Of course all of that was still there, just the majority of his mind was focused on Greg. Conversation picked up soon enough, Greg, Dimmock and Irene striking up a conversation on staff room gossip that held no interest to Mycroft. John was trying to convince Sherlock that he should, in fact, watch James Bond. Sally and Phillip were far too busy entertaining themselves, she was still on his lap, barely managing to get a few sentences out at a time before they were on each other again. A quick scan over them proved that they'd been drinking before the party.

Not being involved in the other's conversations didn't bother Mycroft, He was rather enjoying listening to Greg speaking, hearing the familiar dips and changes in his tone in person rather than just over the phone. It also gave him the perfect opportunity to appreciate Greg in general. Mycroft was well aware that he wasn't good with people, he didn't host parties, he didn't hold conversation with people he didn't find interesting for long…but Greg did. The other teen was so at ease there, casually working swigs of beer into the naturally occurring lulls in conversation. Slipping in and out of the other's conversations as he pleased.

He was just so very different from Mycroft, everything from his tan skin, adorable button nose and general physique to his comfort around people. Greg was as close to perfect as it was possible for someone to be, and so Mycroft easily reasoned that if that was the case he was perilously close to being the exact opposite of that too. The only thing that set him above most of the others was his mind and the control he had over it. Sure, he couldn't control some things, his eating habits came to mind, but his mind was more efficient than the others could ever dream of having. His mind was what he valued the most.

Mycroft wasn't exactly sure how long he'd been observing Greg though, but he estimated it to be around seven minutes. He would have gladly stayed saving every centietre of Greg as he was in that moment to his memory, but the quiet entrance of Anthea pulled him away from that. She looked just the same as ever. Brown hair perfectly curled and flowing past her shoulders, lithe frame in a pair of black skinny jeans and a white blouse, clearly she'd some straight from her shift in TopShop, and had redone her makeup in the bathroom mirror before leaving. She was on her phone, texting what Mycroft could only assume was her boyfriend Joseph.

Taking a seat on the kitchen chair moved to accommodate everyone she still didn't speak or glance up. Irene was the first to greet her, sparking a wave of greetings from the others. Still Anthea didn't look up, "Hello" she greeted them all at once, smiling without lifting her eyes from the phone. "I put a bottle of Rosé in the kitchen…Mycroft, a word please?" she said all at once, only then lifting her eyes from the phone and tucking it into her pocket. Mycroft froze. Anthea was one of Mycroft's closest friends. She knew what he was feeling sometimes before even he had figured it out. Their relationship was so different to what Mycroft and Greg had, but it was just as important to Mycroft. He knew her well enough to know what was coming, and he just didn't want to deal with it. Surely she knew this wasn't the time?

Anthea didn't wait to look at Mycroft as she strode out of the room, remarkable graceful for someone sporting four inch stilettos. One of the things Mycroft appreciated most about Anthea was the fact that she could seemingly be typing on her phone, but in reality survey a room. In her look around the room earlier – although peripheral vision wasn't detailed – she had clearly noted that Mycroft weight had increased again. He gave an assuring half smile to Greg before standing and following after her into the kitchen.

She was leaning against the counter, eyes fixed immediately on him as he entered the room. Again he felt the tightness in his stomach, but did his best to push it aside. Standing rigidly as she slowly looked him up and down. He didn't say anything, didn't move, just looked right back at her and let her think, allowing some of the insecurity to creep back into his veins. Anthea sighed quietly, taking a step forward and putting a hand on his arm.

That simple, small gesture meant so much more than met the eye. It was her telling him that she was there, that even if he didn't want it she was going o be there to help him. It was comforting, and it was a condolence. She knew him well enough to save the pity for when she was alone, although it was clearly quite a struggle to keep it back. "It's not overly terrible Mycroft…" she said stopping when he arched an eyebrow at her. Lying wasn't going to help, she knew that already "...Alright, so it's not good, but it could've been worse." She conceded.

"Not much worse." He muttered sourly, again, his irritation was directed at himself, not Anthea. Sherlock was right earlier. He was bigger than he had been before she'd gone on the diet. Anthea had a good enough eye to see that – something that around half the people in the other room just didn't posses. Anthea sighed softly on his behalf and nodded, understanding that right then he didn't need a debate about it, he just needed someone that could understand the severity of it without hurling barbs at him.

"Your weight isn't a fixed thing Mycroft, if you want to change it you can." She told him, reiterating what he already knew and dreaded. It'd help with all of this and he knew it, he just couldn't bring himself to go back on that diet. It'd been miserable and he'd been in a foul mood…it was his Christmas holidays for God's sake, surely he could work a good excuse somewhere into that. ""I'll get some new clothes for you when you feel like telling me your sizes, don't bother with getting them yourself you take ages in the shops." He said, her cheeky smile in place. She knew him far too well.

Mycroft nodded and smiled slightly in response. "That'd be appreciated, I'll inform you later on." When he'd plucked up the nerve to find out his new sizes for himself. "I believe we should be getting back to the party, something about being 'guest of honour'" he said with an eye roll waiting for her to pour a glass of the Rosé before heading into the living room. Thankfully his entrance that time didn't cause as much of a reaction. Greg just looked over at them both and practically beamed.

"Sit down you two…we can't call this a party without drinking games." Even his tone was full of mischief. Mycroft couldn't help but smile at him as he took his place next to Greg again. Drinking games. He just hoped it wouldn't be as bad as expected.

* * *

 _ **AN: And there we go, I hope you enjoyed that! Thank-you so much for the comments, they really do mean a lot to me.**_

 _ **And I've started a companion blog! Basically I have some free time and I just can't seem to get Mycroft out of my head, so I decided I may as well set something up. It's basically a Q &A blog on Tumblr where you can ask Greg, Mycroft and anyone else that pops up in this fic your questions. I'm sure it'll be a lot of fun, and you'll get to find out more about them than I can fit into this fic, so please do go and check it out and ask away! The blog is on tumblr under: greg-and-mycroft-answer **_


	5. Pirates and Pizza

_AN:_ _Hey there guys! Sorry this took so long, it's been a very busy month for me. I've managed to crack out another chapter though, so if it's riddled with mistakes my apologies, feel free to point them out and I'll correct them. I have a question about what you'd like for the next chapter, but more on that at the end. Please do feel free to tell me what you think of this chapter, and I hope you enjoy!_

The next few hours of Mycroft's life proceeded exactly as you'd expect when in the presence of a group that mainly consisted of somewhat drunk, immature teenagers. It was wasted time, nothing productive came from it, there was no deep, meaning conversations; or anything meaningful at all really. He wouldn't take anything from it that would be beneficial later in his life. Despite that he couldn't say that he regretted it. Sure, it was time that he was never going to get back, but for those few hours he saw Sherlock sitting happily by John, was able to sit close to Greg, and for the first time in what felt like weeks he wasn't worried about his weight.

When Sally and Philip were locked in the cupboard under the stairs for seven minutes of Heaven – it was more like an hour of heaven, no one could tolerate the overly affectionate display for any longer – Mycroft wasn't thinking about visiting the tailors. When Dimmock drank one shot too many and nearly threw up on the carpet, Mycroft wasn't dreading about the talk with his parents. When Anthea's quiet humour made John choke on his beer he wasn't pulling to mind his reflection. Instead he had something better to think about. Something that was all too easy to let encompass his thoughts. And that something was currently passing him another beer.

Yes, Mycroft knew very well that it was cheesy, or corny, or whichever food related adjective that you chose to describe it with. But he couldn't deny that at this moment in time it was Greg that filled his usually constantly shifting mind. Were you to ask him the next day he'd blame it on the beer, claim that it had affected his brain and reduced him to the average intellect that he so despised. The truth was that despite being a little tipsy Mycroft still had more mental capacity than most, at a guess more that the top ninety percent of the population. He was just so relieved. Relieved that despite everything that he'd predicted Greg hadn't seemed disgusted. He hadn't pulled away from Mycroft or said anything. Instead he'd defended him. Tried to protect his feelings. Sitting next to Greg, thighs touching, he could just appreciate him. The button nose, soft hazel eyes, that grin…some people really were blessed with a beautiful body and a beautiful personality. Mycroft wasn't blessed by either –his blessing came in the form of his mind - but given the choice he'd take a relationship with such a beautiful person over being beautiful himself.

If that was selfish he really didn't care.

Mycroft found himself joining into the conversation more as the beer flowed, at some point Anthea pulled a bottle of rum out, and somehow convinced Greg to put Pirates Of The Caribbean on. Her charming ways were truly beyond him. Even with the alcohol there were some points that Mycroft simply fell quiet deciding silence was the best way to go. "Oh shit, I forgot, I'm ordering Pizza in…Any preferences?" Greg asked. There was a chorus of responses, ranging from Dimmock's excited yell of 'meat feast' to Anthea's insistence that at least one of the pizzas have olives on. Greg held up a hand in a fairly ineffective attempt to quiet the group before going round and asking people individual what they wanted. Sally and Philip decided on a simple pepperoni– additional comments were raised about anchovies and pineapple, both of which were promptly boycotted. Sherlock wanted a plain cheese, which John agreed to share. It wasn't likely that Sherlock would have more than one slice anyway.

Anthea and Irene settled on sharing an olive, pepper and chicken pizza. Dimmock – unsurprisingly – voted meat feast seconded by Greg so long as it was covered in jalapenos and as spicy as possible. Leaving Mycroft to decide what he wanted. He'd known this was coming. Despite the fact that everyone else was going to be eating pizza too there'd be a stigma when he ate. There'd be the sideway glances, the eye rolls and the almost too quiet to hear comments. You couldn't eat if you were fat without being judged for it. That was just how it was. "Mushrooms, olive and pepperoni, thanks." He said as soon as Greg's eyes turned to look questioningly at him. The order rolled easily from his tongue, a fact that no doubt Sherlock picked up on. Maybe he'd ordered a few too many pizzas to his room, but it was a bit late to change it now.

Greg slipped out of the room to place the order, dropping back into place by Mycroft and wrapping his arm around the others waist. Mycroft froze for a moment, and Greg took the hint. Mumbling a quiet apology before moving his arm around his boyfriend's shoulders instead. Having Greg's arms anywhere near his stomach or sides like that simply wasn't acceptable. No amount of baggy clothes would be able to hide any of the extra weight then. It just couldn't be allowed. He could barely stand for Greg to even see him at his current size, let alone be so close to his stomach. With the call made the group settled back into conversation, the pizzas were anxiously waited for, hoping to dull the effect of the alcohol and sate their hunger for greasy and absolutely necessary drunk food.

As usual the conversation flowed between multiple topics, ranging from the alien films – Greg's favourites – to the obscure and completely unrelated topics like the gestation periods of multiple animals. Mycroft could only tolerate hearing the group debate the last point for a limited time, eventually stepping in and reeling off the ones they'd been arguing over. It was useful in distracting from the fact that Greg's arm was still in fact wrapped around his shoulders. Contact wasn't Mycroft's strong suit at the best of times. With close friends, some family members and Greg he could accept. Willingly initiate it at times. But at his current size even the smallest, most innocent touches – to his torso especially – were more than a little disconcerting.

The clash of swords flowing from the television's speakers did wonders for filling the natural ebbs in conversation, gave the group some time to consider which topic of conversation they wished to initiate next. There were a few more energetic debates started. Irene battered contesting comments of with the lazy assurance of someone swatting a fly, Dimmock's strategy was to be as loud as he could, Greg never stopped grinning, and Mycroft only chimed in to say who was actually correct. It didn't feel like long until the doorbell was ringing, announcing the arrival of the pizza. Greg stood once again fishing in his pocket for his wallet as he walked towards the door. John also rose to his feet, offering to give him a hand as he followed. The silence was filled with apprehension. Excitement for the food from the others and simple wariness from Mycroft.

He hadn't eaten in front of such a large number of people for months. Even back at Eton Mycroft had rarely eaten in the canteen, when he had it certainly wasn't in the view of so many people. It'd be rude to turn down the pizza now though, and really he was pretty hungry. An apple and a slice of cake was hardly enough to get by on, it barely counted as a snack. Mycroft would make sure to reimburse Greg for the food and the beer that he'd bought. Greg probably wouldn't be best pleased if Mycroft forced the money on him, it was much easier just to slip small amounts where Greg would have left money anyway. The truth of the matter was that Mycroft had money, much more than he needed, and Greg…well, Greg didn't. If he ever noticed that the change left around his room increased when Mycroft was over he didn't comment on it.

John's laugh entered the room before the teen himself, a smug looking Greg following close behind. Clearly he was proud of whichever joke he'd made there. The pizza was handed out quickly and efficiently, prompting people to rearrange themselves slightly so they could reach the pizza they were sharing. Mycroft didn't have to move. He was the only one with a pizza to himself. Usually that'd be considered a good thing, something to brag about. Had he been thin that would have been acceptable, just not at his current weight. 'Just a number' really wasn't true was it?

The chorus of thanks, soon fell quiet as everyone tucked in, eyes fixed on the film. Pirates had never really been Mycroft's favourite. They were just so inaccurate. Pirates were thieves, they were dangerous and their morals were dubious at best. All the interpretations tried to romanticise them. Of course, he did have some fond memories of Sherlock's former passion for the characters. Sword fighting up the stairs, pillaging mummy's room for 'hidden' presents, sitting on the sofa and watching as many pirate films as Sherlock could get his hands on. He'd tolerate pirates only because of those memories.

Most people – Sherlock and Mycroft excluded – looked to be enjoying their pizza. Sherlock never really looked as if he was enjoying food though. Mycroft was pleased to see that he ate a slice and a half of the pizza before abandoning it at turning to give his full attention to the film. The pizza was wonderful. Truly there was no other place that made it quite as nicely as the local pizza place. Had he been at Eton there'd be no doubt that he'd finish the pizza off himself. Only here that wasn't going to happen. He ate slowly, almost painfully so, savouring the salty cheese and the tangy sauce. Sherlock's attention may have been on the television, but that didn't apply to everyone. It was Phillip this time that made Mycroft freeze. Somehow it wasn't surprising that Phillip hadn't yet realised that Mycroft could read his lips, or actually that whispering meant that you spoke very softly and quietly.

Thankfully for Phillip no one but Sally seemed to hear what he had said, and not wanting to start a scene Mycroft didn't comment either. Just shot him a warning look when he glanced over watching to see the 'show' that was evidently Mycroft eating the pizza. Some people's mental capabilities hadn't improved at all, still stuck at the same IQ as the Neanderthals. Phillip was the perfect example of such a person. The only sense he'd shown so far was looking away and keeping his mouth shut after the warning. Despite the fact that Greg had stood up for him, Mycroft was capable of looking after himself. He only ate two slices of the pizza before placing the box on the coffee table. A normal amount for Sherlock, a tiny amount for the rest of the people present. Truthfully he was still hungry, but he'd eaten enough to at least prevent his stomach from rumbling and allow him to think of something over than food.

Greg glanced over with a slight frown when Mycroft put the box down, giving him a questioning and slightly worried look. He felt Anthea do the same. Both knew better than to ask, so Mycroft assumed that he was in the safe for now. Anthea wouldn't bring it up in front of so many people, and she wouldn't comment any other time but today, so he doubted that she'd ever actually comment on it at all. Greg on the other hand would have the opportunity to question him on it later. Even so Mycroft assumed that he'd have forgotten by the time they were alone anyway. Not eating more of the pizza could easily be explained by saying he'd had something before he'd left. It wasn't like he could just explain that he was embarrassed to be eating in front of them, or that the stigma of it wasn't something he had the energy to face at the moment. He just wanted to enjoy the night.

And he did. With the pizza done with, the mostly empty boxes staked by the table, and the leftovers in the kitchen the relaxed chatter of the group began again, starting with a conversation between Anthea and Sherlock about rum and pirates. The resulting conversations were certainly amusing and even Mycroft couldn't suppress an odd chuckle at the witty exchange between the two.

It was almost eleven o'clock before Mycroft finally declared it was time for Sherlock to go home and called a taxi for him. He'd promised mummy that he'd be home before twelve, and he intended to keep that promise. Sherlock's grumbles and groans were sharply cut off when John insisted on seeing him home. Mycroft safely tucked that information away and shared a small smirk with Greg. They were all thinking the same thing anyway. John wasn't quiet, he had good friends both in and out of school, most of which would undoubtedly be better friends than Sherlock. After all most people's friends don't take blood samples for an experiment, and they don't behave anywhere near as appallingly as Sherlock could.

Yet despite that there was no competition to be his best friend. That position had been filled within hours of meeting Sherlock and no one could dispute it. Someone who could put up with Sherlock – an impressive feat that even Mycroft struggled with at times – had raised eyebrows from the start. It was obvious to everyone that knew them that there was something else there. The two still had to figure that out for themselves. The group at the party already had bets on how long it'd take for the penny to drop. It couldn't be long now.

With the youngest member of the group gone Irene declared that it was time for the true party games, swinging her legs over the arm of the chair as she spoke. "Well, juniors gone home, there's plenty of drinks left…it'd be such a shame to waste it all would it?" she asked, a smirk curling her lips. Irene was clearly up to something. As she was driving Philip and Sally home she'd avoided drinking much, still on the same glass of wine as when they'd entered. This was the perfect opportunity to learn what she could about people without claims of forcing them to admit anything. It must so be tiresome to have to wait for opportunities like this instead of just reading it from people like Mycroft did. "So, Mycroft, as the guest of honour you get to go first…Truth or dare?" she asked.

Mycroft didn't answer immediately; well aware of the fact that everyone's eyes were on him. Even Sally and Phillip were watching. Evidently the threat of being locked back in the cupboard was enough to reduce their display to little more than pecks and occupying the same spot on the sofa. Mycroft was now in a position that he didn't want to be in, Irene had picked him just because she knew he wouldn't want it, and she wanted to see how he reacted. It took no effort to keep his posture as relaxed as possible, his facial expression unchanging. He couldn't step away from the question… that would be backing down to Irene. He needed to make sure that she wasn't finding out how to get to him again. Both truth and dare ran an equal risk of humiliation; it was just trying to decide which would be the least memorable. With Dimmock and Irene present dares were incredibly risky, it was likely that truths were the safest bet. He had a feeling that he was going to regret it no matter which one he picked/ "If you insist on me taking part Irene, then I'd have to pick truth." He said voice not exactly cold but certainly not warm either.

"You know, when I said guest of honour I didn't mean it like that Irene, he doesn't have to go first." Greg mumbled quietly, more of an apology to Mycroft for putting him in that position rather than actually getting him out of it. It was too quiet to be heard clearly, and it certainly didn't stop Dimmock from asking Mycroft a truth.

"How'd you let yourself go like that?" Dimmock asked unsurprisingly. Greg tensed beside Mycroft, opening his mouth to say something before he was cut of by Irene.

"Shut up Dimmock." She said, smirk falling for a moment. She even managed to subtly hint at the inflections in Greg's accent. "I am curious though…how did you let yourself go?" she asked, with a smile that looked more like baring teeth than anything else.

"I forfeit the question." Mycroft all but snarled, letting a little of his irritation sneak past his barriers. Practically daring anyone to protest. Greg shuffled a little further away from Mycroft on the seat, correctly assuming that he'd want more space. Mycroft might have been concerned at how well Greg could read him, but there were more pressing things occurring.

Anthea tilted her head watching Mycroft. She was curious too. He could read that easily. She wouldn't ask though, certainly wouldn't force him to answer. "Alright, your forfeit is a dare." She declared confidently. "Because you're the 'guest of honour' I'll make it a nice one." She repeated Irene's words. She hadn't actually thought of a dare yet, but she was thinking. "I dare you to get us all a refill of our drinks. You'll need to get me a glass of Rosé from the kitchen and Irene will have a diet coke."

That was a nice one and Mycroft nodded his thanks to her before rising from his seat to get the drinks from the kitchen. It gave him time to calm himself again. Dimmock was fast wearing on his patience, another comment and he doubted that he'd be able to restrain from declaring everything he could deduce about the other. Even with the alcohol in his veins he could read enough to make sure that it wasn't an enjoyable experience for him at all. Of course, he knew that Anthea had not only removed him from the room to calm himself down and reconstruct the barricades that separated comments like that and his feeling, but also to give them time to have a word with the others.

He always questioned what it was exactly that explained why he had such loyal and kind friends. Mycroft wouldn't deny that when it came to the people that he liked and trusted he was defensive, but he wasn't the person to go to if you wanted a shoulder to cry on. He wasn't supportive emotionally most of the time. Mycroft was well aware of all the processes that he was supposed to go through to provide comfort, he knew all the theory behind it, yet putting it into practice was something that required great difficulty on his part.

How did he know that his friends were having a 'word' with the others about holding their tongue? It was because the room had fallen quiet. There was no chattering between the others, just the sound of the film in the background. He was half curious about what it was exactly they were saying, but then he wouldn't deduce it. Things like that were really better for everyone if he pretended that he didn't know they'd done anything at all. He waited another minute or two until the chatting started up again before bringing Irene and Anthea's drinks in. Dimmock, Sally and Phillip had the decency to look a little sheepish about whatever it was they'd said, but no one apologised. Fair enough. So long as they stopped he didn't need an apology.

"Who's next?" he asked, voice back to it's normal tone. There was a hum as Sally decided to call the shots for this one.

"Irene, you can go next." She decided after a moment. "Truth or dare." Now, Mycroft wasn't exactly fond of Sally. It was something to do with the fact that she'd called Sherlock a freak on multiple occasions. That being said she wasn't that much of an idiot, certainly still an idiot considering how she hadn't actually stopped the nickname she'd settled on for Sherlock, but enough that he could tolerate her being there at least. Sally had a backbone, and she stuck to her convictions, a trait that Mycroft thought too many people lacked. A few setbacks that would certainly need to be resolved if they were going to get along at all. Learning respect was one of those.

"Dare." Irene's response came swiftly, her certainty probably wasn't the wisest considering the nature of the game, but she pulled it off perfectly, just enough interest to prove she was invested in the game, but not enough to encroach on the distance she'd set up between herself and the alcohol tainted majority. She was collecting information, things she could use on the people present and anyone that came up n conversation. For Irene that was probably more interesting than any other game they could come up with – short of taunting other people that was.

"Take your shirt off." Dimmock grinned, sharp stopping that when Greg's hand thwacked against the back of his head.

"Don't be a pervert Dimmock." He chastised him. Obviously deciding that some ground rules applied. Not that Irene would have been uncomfortable, she'd merely shrugged at the suggestion. "Irene, your dare is to put lipstick on someone…without using your hands." He grinned quite clearly proud of his decision.

"Easy." She said with a smirk, digging into her bag and pulling out a tube of lipstick. It wasn't the same colour that she had on her own lips, which considering the boldness of the colour wasn't a bad thing. "Anthea, I'm putting it on your lips, It's more your colour than anyone else's." She explained. Mycroft scanned over her, figuring out if that was the true reason, and it was, Irene didn't seem to have any qualms other than that about who she was going to put the lipstick on. Anthea tilted her head slightly as he evaluated the colour.

"Alright then, don't get it all over my face mind, I don't have make-up remover on me." She warned, shuffling to make it a little easier on Irene. Irene positioned the lipstick between her teeth, leaning forwards and managing to get the lipstick looking exceptionally neat considering the circumstances. A slight clean up with one of Anthea's nails and it was as if it'd been applied by hand.

The rest of the game proceeded in a similar fashion. The truths weren't interesting to Mycroft considering he knew it all already, but he had to admit that the dares were fairly amusing, especially considering how Phillip and drank some hot sauce, and Dimmock had a taste of his own medicine when Sally picked the dare and he had to sit in nothing but his boxers for the next half hour. All in all the game fulfilled its goal. Everyone – including Mycroft – had laughed at least once. It was all good-natured too, no more sly truths designed to embarrass and humiliate Mycroft, so clearly whatever Greg and Anthea had said to the others had worked. A relief for Mycroft to say the least.

He had to admit that he was glad to go to the party. Seeing Greg again was exactly what he needed. And aside from a few blips with his weight it really hadn't been as terrible as he had expected. Everyone was just how he remembered them, and considering that Mycroft wasn't all too fond of change that was a good thing. It was a reminder that he was at home, and for the next month he'd be able to spend time with his friends – or for at least two weeks of the holiday, the others didn't break up from school for another week. Mycroft was looking forward to it, especially getting to be alone with Greg again. It'd been far too long since he'd just gotten to spend time with him, without the presence of an audience, and to actually talk to him in person rather than over the phone?

Yes, he was looking forwards to getting some time with Greg again. He could only hope that Greg had similar feelings.

 _AN: And there we go! I hope that was up to standard for you guys._

 _So, for the next chapter, I can either have them play a few more party games, get up to a little more mischief, or we can move it on to the others leaving and Mycroft and Greg finally getting some time together. I'd be more than happy to do either, so please drop your opinion in the comments on the boy's blog over at Feel free to ask them any questions you have too, it'll be a bit of fun!_

 _So, I hope you enjoyed it, and thanks for reading!_


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